


The Sting of It (What to Do with Something Broken)

by dannyPURO



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: A little angst, Boys Please Be Better at Communication Please, But Now He's Just Mostly Trying His Best, Enjolras Was A Charming Young Man Who Was Capable Of Being Terrible, Grantaire Has Self-Esteem Issues, Incredibly Awkward Discussions, M/M, Miscommunication, Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-11
Updated: 2019-06-11
Packaged: 2020-04-24 18:52:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,639
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19179337
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dannyPURO/pseuds/dannyPURO
Summary: The trick, Grantaire decided long ago, is simply to keep Enjolras from realizing just how much he likes him, at all costs.That’s hardly news. He’s had that policy for years and years. He’s had that policy since he first met Enjolras, the both of them in college and Enjolras blindingly young and passionate and beautiful (and impossibly scrawny and dorky and painfully genuine), because, by no coincidence at all, that’s also pretty much when he fell in love with him.





	The Sting of It (What to Do with Something Broken)

The trick, Grantaire decided long ago, is simply to keep Enjolras from realizing just how much he likes him, at all costs.

That’s hardly news. He’s had that policy for years and years. He’s had that policy since he first met Enjolras, the both of them in college and Enjolras blindingly young and passionate and beautiful (and impossibly scrawny and dorky and painfully genuine), because, by no coincidence at all, that’s also pretty much when he fell in love with him. (Or, that’s a bit of an exaggeration. Grantaire is sure, for the sake of his dignity, that it was more like the fourth or fifth time meeting when he really fell in love. The first was just the start. But whatever.)

And so it’s not like it’s  _ hard _ , is what Grantaire is trying to get at. He’s used to making himself sit in the back of the Musain, used to letting himself go too far when they argue, used to arranging things specifically to stop him from getting too close. He’s used to having to content himself to a quick glance and then to fixing his gaze on the floor whenever Enjolras laughs and cracks that rare, awkward,  _ brilliant  _ smile from across the room.

It’s just that it’s a little excruciating, sometimes. Sometimes, he  _ aches  _ with how much he just wants to shut up and lean in close and maybe, like, let his shoulder press up against Enjolras’s, just for a moment. Sometimes, like now, he watches Combeferre and Courfeyrac and Feuilly pile around Enjolras and pull him into what looks like a painfully tight hug (Enjolras had gotten an editorial into a real paper, Enjolras had burst into the meeting with the paper in hand, Enjolras is grinning, laughing, eyes closed) and he just wishes he could be somebody else. Somebody who was allowed to touch.

Scratch that, he doesn’t even need to be allowed to touch. He just wishes…

He just wishes he could sit a little closer.

He’s already been watching for too long, and just as he realizes it, Enjolras opens his eyes, meets his gaze, holds it, from across the room.

Grantaire can’t breathe.

Enjolras is still looking at him.  _ Him.  _ Looking at him with those wide, piercing eyes, and Grantaire is going to fucking faint if he doesn’t get the fuck out of there  _ now. _

He stands up and pushes his way to the bathroom and knocks a book to the floor on his way and doesn’t look at Enjolras again that night.

(When he gets home, he reads Enjolras’s article through six times before he folds up the newspaper with shaking hands and slips it into a drawer in his desk.)

 

It’s not like it was always so… much. Back in college, when Enjolras was eighteen and Grantaire was twenty one, back before even Grantaire knew just how totally  _ fucked  _ he was, they used to hang out. Not like… not like Enjolras and Combeferre do, or like Enjolras and Feuilly do, not like  _ real  _ friends, but they did. They’d go out for coffee and bicker, and Grantaire would go to parties and sit next to him if that’s where an open chair was and talk to him and not feel utterly incomptetant and awful. 

It was pretty great.

Grantaire had even thought, way back when, that maybe,  _ maybe,  _ he had a chance. Sometimes, he used to think, Enjolras’s gaze would linger a little too long, too. He used to think, every so often, when he was feeling particularly brave, that maybe in a few weeks, a few months, Enjolras might warm up to him enough to…

To maybe go on a date or something. God, Grantaire doesn’t even know. It hadn’t seemed impossible, somehow. Somehow, he’d gotten it into his head that Enjolras might like him.

And then Grantaire had gotten just a little too drunk before a rally (and he hadn’t meant to, even, it was a mistake, it was stupid, he didn’t mean to), and Enjolras had snapped at him, stated his mind, called him _ “incapable of believing, of thinking, of willing, of living, and of dying _ ,” (and God, Grantaire can still hear it now, can still see Enjolras, nineteen and furious and terrible and stunning, golden in the back-room lighting and looking down upon Grantaire like it must have always been meant to be) and he’d been brought back to his senses so fast it had hurt.

What the fuck was he thinking, to think Enjolras might want somebody like him?

Anyways, it was just a little hard to spend time with Enjolras once he knew all that. Once he knew that Enjolras would never… never…

God, what _ ever,  _ it’s not like Grantaire didn’t know Enjolras was too good for him before he got it affirmed in the most painful way humanly possible.

 

So… yeah. That’s how it goes. Which, you know, is fine. Again, Grantaire is used to it. 

Enjolras tries to change it, sometimes. He’ll stiffly invite Grantaire to a lecture, or to an event, and Grantaire plays his part and turns him down and doesn’t make him pretend to be nice for a whole evening. He’d already experienced a year of Enjolras’s pity, he doesn’t need any more.

And that’s another reason for Grantaire’s…  _ policy.  _ Never mind what things are like now; if Enjolras finds out that he’s totally, completely, stupidly in love with him, they’ll get infinitely worse. And Grantaire just doesn’t need Enjolras to pretend to like him. It’s  _ fine.  _

He’s fine.

 

It’s Tuesday, so there’s a meeting. That’s just the way it is. That’s the way it’s been for years. And Grantaire sits in the back and whispers jokes to Joly and Bossuet and argues with Enjolras until Enjolras is flushed pink and frustrated and Grantaire is frustrated, too. And then he shuts up again, because-

(Because at the end of the day, it still stings when Enjolras shoots him a look of disapproval, even if he prodded it out of him.)

God, fuck, what _ ever. _

The meeting ends and Grantaire wants nothing more but to go home and flop down on his bed and watch something dumb on Netflix, because, as he’s been noticing a lot lately, this kind of really sucks. So he gets up to leave--and it’s before everyone else, because just because the meeting is over doesn’t mean that anybody goes home for another hour at the very least--and he’s halfway to the door, and a hand closes around his wrist.

He pauses, turns (expecting to see Jehan, or Joly, or somebody  _ normal),  _ and freezes, right where he stands.

Because Enjolras is there, closer than he’s been in so long, and he’s got a delicate hand wrapped around Grantaire’s wrist and Grantaire is very, very lost and very, very breathless.

“What?” Grantaire manages, when he can.

Enjolras frowns, looks down at their hands and then back up at Grantaire. “Can we meet for lunch tomorrow?” He asks, as though that’s a sentence that makes any kind of sense.

Grantaire fumbles for any words, any at all. “What- Why? What?”

Enjolras’s scowl deepens (he’s getting a wrinkle between his brows, even when he isn’t frowning. He’s getting older. Grantaire is way, way too charmed and he knows it.) “Lunch? Tomorrow?”

He clears his throat. “ _ Why?”  _ he asks, because that’s pretty much the only thought in his head--that, and the fact that Enjolras is still holding onto his wrist.

And now Enjolras is dropping his wrist, too, and shoving his hands into his pockets before he meets Grantaire’s gaze again. “I think-” he sighs, shrugs. “I’ve been thinking we should probably discuss some aspects of our relationship.”

And just like that, Grantaire’s heart is pounding. Because this is  _ bad.  _ There’s only one thing Enjolras might want to discuss with Grantaire, and it’s  _ bad.  _ Oh, God, Enjolras found out about Grantaire’s stupid fucking feelings, and now he’s going to make him talk, and he’s going to sit up too straight in his chair and talk about morality or something like that, and-

Grantaire can’t deal with that. “I’m-busy-tomorrow,” he chokes out, too fast, and he’s out the door before he can defy himself and sneak a glance at the way Enjolras must surely be looking at him.

He catches a glimpse anyways, as the door is closing, and the look on Enjolras’s face is so oddly reminiscent of the way he looked that awful night, back in college, that Grantaire just has to go home and cry a little into the sleeve of his sweater.

 

When Grantaire wakes up the next morning, it’s already late, and he’s already got a missed call and a voicemail from Enjolras on his phone. And so he’s got a headache, now, too, and he can’t really bear to listen to it, so he goes back to sleep with his pillow over his eyes and just decides to fuck the whole morning in general.

Other than that, it’s not too bad, really. When he gets up for real, he makes himself coffee and eggs and sits at the kitchen table in his pajamas and tries to work up the nerve to play the voicemail. It’s a little strange, hearing Enjolras’s voice in his kitchen. It almost distracts Grantaire from the fact that Enjolras is, like,  _ definitely  _ going to yell at him or kick him out of les Amis or tell him to fuck off or just tell him what he really thinks, again. 

He sucks it the fuck up and presses play.

_ “Hello. Grantaire.”  _ Enjolras’s voice sounds sleep-rough and a little stuffy over the phone, and Grantaire checks the timestamp: 6:41 a.m. Christ, what a weird guy.  _ “I know you don’t really want to talk to me, or, at the very least, you didn’t want to yesterday or today or recently, or-”  _ he clears his throat, continues.  _ “I am of the opinion that we need to talk, anyways. There are some aspects of our relations that I feel need to be discussed, and I was hoping it would just… just happen, but I don’t think… It doesn’t seem as though it will, so I want to meet to talk about it. Please.”  _ A pause.  _ “I’m just now realizing how early it is. I apologize. But please meet me for lunch, Grantaire.”  _ Another pause.  _ “Goodbye.” _

And Grantaire is fine. Really. He just needs…

He just needs to take a little while to deal with this.

He just needs a little time.

Maybe if he stays away for long enough, Enjolras will simply forget about all of this and they’ll never have to discuss the fact that Grantaire is both an awful, useless person, and hopelessly in love with Enjolras.

 

He skips Friday night drinks and ignores Bossuet’s texts, when he asks where he is with a frowny face at the end.

He skips the next meeting that rolls around, and Enjolras calls again, after. Grantaire doesn’t answer, and he doesn’t listen to the voice message.

 

He can’t stay away from Enjolras for long, is the thing. It’s for two reasons, really; first, Enjolras is… Enjolras, and Grantaire has never really been able to stay away, not for long. But Grantaire’s friends are also Enjolras’s friends, and he loves them more than anything, and that brings him back, too. (God, Grantaire hopes that he doesn’t have to stop hanging out with Joly and Bossuet and Bahorel and everyone else when Enjolras inevitably kicks him out of les Amis or something. That would really, really, really  _ really  _ suck.) 

But it’s Joly’s birthday, and so of course there’s a party, and of course Grantaire is going to go. He might be a lazy asshole who’s pathetically in love with someone who can’t stand him, but at the very least, he’s a good friend. So he gets a gift and shaves and tries to look a little nice and takes the Metro over to Joly and Bossuet’s place, never mind that Enjolras will certainly be there, too. (Grantaire is pretty sure Enjolras has gone to every single one of his friends’ events for the entirety of the six years he’d known them. He even goes to Grantaire’s gallery openings, despite the fact that Grantaire doesn’t exactly tell him when they are.)

But, yeah. He goes to the party. And he hugs Joly and wishes him a happy birthday and hangs out and chats and gets just a little drunk, and it’s nice. He can feel Enjolras’s eyes on the back of his neck, of course, but he can’t do anything about that, so it’s easy enough to ignore, right up until when going to the kitchen to get himself a seltzer and Enjolras grabs him by the arm and pulls him aside before he can even reach the fridge.

(God, why does Enjolras keep fucking  _ touching  _ him?)

“You didn’t-” Enjolras swallows, like he’s the one with any right to be nervous. “Did you get my voicemail?”

Of course Grantaire got his fucking voicemail. “‘Course I got your fucking voicemail.”

“Oh.” Enjolras drops his hand from Grantaire’s arm. Grantaire hates how much he misses its presence. “You didn’t call me back.”

Grantaire takes a deep breath. “No.”

He looks vaguely pained. “Wh-” he cuts off, bites his lip. “Okay.”

Grantaire occupies himself with very carefully examining the kitchen tiles.

Enjolras makes a frustrated noise, but it’s another few moments before he huffs a sigh and speaks. “Could you just- Could you please just  _ talk  _ to me?”

“I’m talking to you,” Grantaire says, and even he knows it’s bullshit, even he knows that isn’t what Enjolras means, even he knows he’s doing this on purpose. 

Enjolras shuts his eyes. The vein on his forehead is doing the thing where it pops out a little. “I’ll rephrase. Could you please meet me for lunch so that we can have a civilized discussion about some very important matters? Because I don’t want to do it here.”

And the thing is, maybe if Grantaire wasn’t in love with him, he’d be able to say no, be able to walk away like he did last time. But the whole problem is that Grantaire  _ is  _ in love with him. And at the end of the day, it’s still hard to deny Enjolras anything. “Okay,” he hears himself say, and he didn’t mean to say it and he can’t stop himself. “Let’s get lunch.”

Enjolras opens his eyes. Grantaire has to look away again. “Good. Thank you.”

 

They get lunch. Enjolras meets him at a Vietnamese place that Grantaire knows is near Enjolras’s apartment, and they sit in a quiet corner and order phở. It feels as though they’re sitting far too close, and while the small tables certainly aren’t helping, Grantaire is pretty sure they could be on opposite sides of a banquet hall and he’d still feel like this, considering the circumstances.

(Grantaire can remember when they used to go out like this, years ago. He misses it. Of course, it’s all a little sullied by the fact that Enjolras literally never meant any of it besides pity and a scrap of sympathy, but whatever. Whatever. Fucking  _ whatever.) _

“So,” Enjolras says, once their food comes, and once they’ve both been awkwardly picking at it for a few minutes. (Grantaire can’t really stomach anything, not right now.)

“So,” Grantaire says.

Enjolras scrubs a hand in his face--an unsettling break in that uptight posture of his. “I need to apologize,” he says, and Grantaire knows, in an instant, that this is going to be worse than whatever he was expecting. 

“I don’t want you to  _ apologize,”  _ he spits, because he  _ doesn’t,  _ he doesn’t want Enjolras’s pity, and he doesn’t want him to  _ lie,  _ and he doesn’t even want to be here.

He stiffens, sets his chopsticks down. “That’s ridiculous. I need to. I’m going to.”

It’s Grantaire’s turn to rest his face in his hands, just for a moment. “For what, Enj? What?” And it’s not like he says it any differently from how they usually talk, but Enjolras-

Enjolras draws in a deep, shaky breath and looks down at his hands. “I apologize for what I said to you, back in college,” he says, and  _ oh,  _ this is going down that other road, and that’s no better. “It was… awful. It was awful. It was the worst thing I’ve ever said to anybody, and you had done nothing to deserve it, and-” he swallows. “And I know that that’s what ended our friendship, and I kept waiting for things to get better, but I understand that- that-- And then they didn’t, and it’s been years, and I need to apologize.”

He almost, almost,  _ almost  _ lets himself bask in that. Almost lets himself take it at face value, almost lets himself focus on the fact that Enjolras had said that  _ he had done nothing to deserve it  _ and that-

And that they were friends.

He stops himself, and it hurts. But he has to, because that’s not-

Enjolras doesn’t mean that, Grantaire knows he doesn’t. Because he already knows perfectly well what Enjolras thinks of him, and that isn’t it. And it never has been, and lying about it for the sake of- of- of fucking  _ equality,  _ or some bullshit, (or more likely, for the sake of making meetings a little more peaceful) makes Grantaire want to retch. 

“Fuck off,” Grantaire says, and he means to hiss it, but it comes out too weak, something more akin to a whisper.

When he looks up again, Enjolras’s eyes are wide. Like he didn’t even imagine that maybe this wouldn’t end well. “Grantaire-”

“I don’t want you to- to apologize for that, not now. I don’t want to fucking talk about it.” Damn right, he doesn’t want to talk about it. He’s pretty sure his heart is still aching in the echoes of that one moment of excruciating heartbreak. 

“Grantaire,” Enjolras says, again, and there’s something sad in his voice that makes Grantaire miserable and furious and incredibly in love at the same time. “I’m  _ sorry.” _

He can’t breathe, but he shakes his head, anyways. “It’s fine,” he says, lies, soft. “I’m fine. I don’t need you to lie and try and fix it now just because you’re- you’re fucking worried or something. I’m fine, and- and you’re right, anyways, so it’s whatever, right?” He cracks a smile, hopes it comes across as somewhat normal.

Across the table, Enjolras is mouthing his own words back to him, running them though his head, a crease between his brows, before he stops, eyes wide. “I’m not  _ right.  _ I wasn’t right. I didn’t even mean it then, it wasn’t about that. I-” he sounds a little choked up, somehow. Grantaire doesn’t understand. “I didn’t mean it. I wasn’t right.”

“It’s  _ fine.” _

“It’s not fine!” Enjolras is staring him down, now, something burning in his eyes like there is when he speaks at rallies, like there is when he’s in front of a crowd. “It’s been five years and you’re clearly still thinking about it and it obviously still matters and it was  _ awful,  _ it was a disgusting thing to say to a friend, and you believed it and I never apologized and we don’t even talk anymore and I wrecked everything and that’s not  _ fine,  _ it’s… it’s despicable, and-” he takes a deep, deep breath, and then another. “And I know how you feel about me, and I used that as an excuse to avoid the conversation, and that was wrong. And I’m sorry.”

Grantaire can’t breathe, Enjolras said-

Enjolras knows how he feels. He  _ knows. _

He  _ knows _ , and he’s apologizing because he fucking  _ feels bad,  _ and he’s known for a while now, probably, and he’s ignored it out of pity and Grantaire’s surely done something to provoke this conversation and this is probably a lead-in to a goodbye, a tidying-up of loose ends before Enjolras says that he would just be more comfortable if Grantaire never fucking talked to him again, only Grantaire can’t do that, he can’t leave, because-

Because he loves Enjolras so much that if he can’t see him anymore his heart might just give out, and oh, fuck, Enjolras is still  _ looking  _ at him, and he knows how he feels, and this was all out of pity, and-

“Fuck  _ off,”  _ Grantaire chokes. “Fuck  _ off _ .” He fumbles for his wallet, throws ten euros on the table, and he doesn’t even know if that covers his whole lunch but Enjolras kind of just broke his heart even further and if he has to pay an extra few euros because of it, well, that’s what he had coming to him.

He’s out the door fast enough that Enjolras wouldn’t be able to catch him, even if he wanted to.

He goes home and sits down on the couch and puts his head in his hands and tries to figure out what the fuck he’s going to do. Only, his brain doesn’t seem to be working very well at all, is the problem, so he mostly just sits there and freaks out. He doesn’t know how long he does so, mostly because of the fact that he is extremely adept at sitting places and freaking out for very long periods of time.

What he does know is that he gets a call from Combeferre at half past five. And he almost doesn’t pick up, because Combeferre is, of course, Enjolras’s best friend, and maybe he’s calling to continue the conversation, but then he does, because at the end of the day, Combeferre is Grantaire’s friend, too, and, as previously discussed, Grantaire is a good friend.

“Hello?” he asks, and he sounds, at the very least, fairly normal. Never mind what he’s feeling.

“Grantaire,” Combeferre says, no greeting at all. He’s talking soft--almost whispering, but not quite. “I just got home from work.”

He doesn’t know where this is going, but he’s mildly concerned. “Oh?”

“Yes. Grantaire, could you please explain to me why Enjolras is in my bedroom, sobbing into my pillow, where he has been doing so for an indeterminate amount of time?”

Grantaire freezes. 

“Grantaire?”

He clears his throat, just to get a hint of his voice back. “What?”

“What happened at lunch? What did you say?”

“I didn’t say anything! I-” He stops, because of course that’s not true, but it’s not like Enjolras actually  _ cares  _ about what he says.

Combeferre sighs, loud and crackly through the phone’s speakers. “You’re not really fooling anyone,” he says, and Grantaire loves his simple honesty basically all the time, just not now. “I know how you feel, and I know Enj isn’t always the most polite person in the world, but I just don’t know why you insist on being such a dick to him all the time.”

Grantaire picks at his coffee table with his thumbnail. “Did you tell him?” he asks, doing his very hardest to keep the panic from his voice and also completely avoid the implied question. “Did you-”

“No.”

“He said he knew.”

“Knew…” he fades off, waits for Grantaire to fill in.

“Knew how I feel! He tried to fucking apologize because he said he knew how I feel and I’m fine, Combeferre, and I don’t fucking want his- his pity, or anything like that, I don’t actually care how he feels, I just don’t want him to  _ lie  _ about it, I already know, of course I fucking already- And he  _ knows _ , do you promise you didn’t tell him?”

Combeferre sucks in a breath. “Promise.” There’s silence over the line for a good, long time. “Enjolras said he knows you like him?”

Grantaire tangles his fingers in his hair. “That was certainly the implication, Ferre.”

“He doesn’t.”

“Yeah, I know he doesn’t like me.”

“No, he doesn’t know you like him. That’s not what it was about.”

Grantaire is very, very confused all over again. “Wh-”

Combeferre, in addition to his many talents, is extremely adept at sounding very exasperated over the phone. “Can you please just come over? I think you and Enjolras had very different understandings of what happened at lunch.”

Grantaire doesn’t really know what could have possibly been unclear about their conversation, but he hears himself say, “Yeah, whatever, sure,” anyways, because Ferre is asking him and because apparently, somehow, Enjolras is crying and it has to do with him. “Yeah, I’ll be there in twenty.”

“Good.” A pause. “Please just give him a chance, R,” he says, then, like that makes any sense, but before Grantaire can ask, he’s hung up.

 

Grantaire takes the Metro to Combeferre’s apartment. Ferre and Enjolras only live about a block apart, and it’s not a coincidence--Grantaire remembers how distressed Enjolras had been when they decided to get their own places and stop rooming together once college ended, and Grantaire knows for a fact that Enjolras had fucking…  _ eloquated  _ at his poor realtor until he’d found a place in the same area as Combeferre’s.

What a dork.

So he goes to Ferre’s place and he tries to do what he said and give Enjolras a chance, but it’s just a little hard when he’s-

Oh, he’s  _ angry. _

He’s never really been angry at Enjolras before, not ever. Now, all he can think about is the fact that Enjolras has the fucking gall to act like he’s the one being hurt by the situation. That he’s (apparently) crying on Combeferre’s bed while Grantaire shaped up and tried to make himself anything but a bother and nothing but a bother for five fucking  _ years  _ because he’s so in love his whole self aches. So how dare he?

Whatever.

Combeferre lets him in and points him to the bedroom and makes himself scarce--probably off to Enjolras’s apartment, which, again, a little funny. Grantaire tries his very hardest not to run away at the thought of talking to Enjolras again.

He opens the door. 

Enjolras is sprawled out on Combeferre’s quilt, a pillow over his face. “I don’t want any soup, Ferre,” he says, (or, at least, that’s what Grantaire thinks he says. It’s very muffled.)

“I’m not-”

He jolts upright, hastily stowing the pillow behind himself. Grantaire can’t take his eyes off the look on his face, his wide eyes. “Grantaire,” he says, and his voice is hoarse, soft.

It’s a little harder to be mad at Enjolras now that he’s there in person, curls all rumpled and confusion painted all across his face. 

And Grantaire wants to say something, to make his point and to get out of there or even buck up and yell, but all he can manage is, “Combeferre told me to come over.”

“Oh.” He reaches up a hand to brush his hair back from his face, but Grantaire is pretty sure he just makes it worse. “Okay. Yeah, I guess you…” He gestures to the foot of the bed, and Grantaire sits down despite the fact that it feels far, far too intimate.

His heart is pounding. “So-”

“I don’t know what I’m supposed to do,” Enjolras blurts out, and then he’s just…  _ talking.  _ “I understand, okay, I understand that you are under no obligation to spend time with me or accept my apologies, and I know that what I said was- was unforgivable, but you just hang around and I try to fix things and it never works and nothing changes and I don’t know what to do, and then I try to apologize and you yell at me and I don’t know what you  _ want,  _ Grantaire.”

“I want-” Grantaire begins, because that’s easy, that’s simple, only he can’t exactly remember, now. He clears his throat. 

Enjolras picks at a whorl of stitches on the quilt.

Grantaire has got Combeferre’s phone call running through his head, overlapping with Enjolras’s words, and he gets struck with the distinct impression that he no longer knows what’s happening. Nothing makes sense. “You said-” he clears his throat again--it’s so dry. “You said you knew how I feel,” he says, finally, because it’s all kind of out in the open now, isn’t it. He certainly feels rubbed raw.

And Enjolras, he bites his lip and curls in on himself and Grantaire could never have predicted the pinched look on his face in a million years. “I know you don’t like me,” he says, and Grantaire is frozen. “I don’t know if you ever did, but I do know that I thought… Well, I thought we were friends, and then I said something stupid and cruel and untrue and I ruined all of that. And I know you haven’t forgiven me and that’s okay but I’m  _ trying,  _ I really am. I’m trying to fix it.”

“There’s nothing to fix,” Grantaire murmurs, and he doesn’t even know if it’s true or not, but nothing Enjolras is saying makes sense and it’s not right and Enjolras didn’t mess up, Grantaire messed up, and it wasn’t untrue, that was the whole point, and-

“You haven’t spoken to me in five years. Not as friends.” A long, weighty pause. “I- Do you not…” He waits, as if waiting for Grantaire to complete his sentence for him, but Grantaire doesn’t know what he’s trying to say. “I know I messed something up. Really bad. But it’s fine if you don’t want to try and fix it. That’s okay, I really understand, only… Only could you please  _ tell  _ me? I’ll leave you alone, I just-” He breaks off, swallows.

“I don’t want you to leave me alone,” Grantaire says, because at the very least he knows that’s true. “But you said you knew- knew how I feel, you-”

“You don’t  _ like  _ me,” Enjolras whispers, and his voice sounds thick, like maybe-

Like maybe he’s going to cry, or something.

He shakes his head slow. “I like you just fine.”

“You  _ don’t.” _ Enjolras scrubs a hand over his face. “I’m  _ sorry.”  _ He gulps. “I didn’t mean it.” He’s whispering again.

And Grantaire, somehow, stops. Thinks, for a moment, about the fact that Enjolras sounds a lot like he might be telling the truth. That he never meant what he said that day, so many years ago. That he doesn’t think Grantaire is- is fucking useless. That he thinks Grantaire doesn’t like him. That he just wants things to be better.

It’s a lot to consider.

A lot to consider, but Enjolras is looking watery in the eye and his hands are shaking a little in his lap, and Combeferre had said to give Enjolras a chance, so he sighs, scrapes a hand through his hair. “I like you just fine,” he says, once more, only this time, it matters more. “And I’m not… I’m not mad, or anything. I just kind of thought you didn’t like me. Like, at all.”

“Oh.” Enjolras looks a little horrified. “Then why- I tried to talk to you, why didn’t you-”

“Thought you couldn’t stand me. Didn’t want your pity.”

“Oh,” Enjolras says again, and he seems to steel himself. “Can I-”

And Grantaire would ask what he’s asking for, but he doesn’t have to, because Enjolras is shuffling in closer and putting his arms around Grantaire and leaning his head on his shoulder. Grantaire’s heart is pounding, but he wraps his arms tight around him and holds him close, all the same.

And Enjolras, he- he  _ melts  _ into Grantaire, holding tight and shutting his eyes and leaning in. “I’m sorry,” he whispers against the wool of Grantaire’s sweater. His breath is hot against Grantaire’s neck. “I didn’t mean it.”

Grantaire breathes in the smell of Enjolras’s fancy shampoo. “You’re really torn up about that,” he says, and he’s only half teasing.

“I messed everything up,” he says. “I liked being friends with you. And I messed it up and I didn’t know how to apologize, but-”

“It’s cool,” Grantaire says. “It worked out.”

“Yeah.” Enjolras just keeps his hold and breathes. “I missed you.’’

And Grantaire doesn’t laugh, even though he’s been there the whole time, because he knows what Enjolras means.

(He’s missed being allowed to touch, though he doesn’t think they’ve ever been so close before.)

His heart is still going about a mile a minute, but that’s not that important, right now. All that romantic stuff is kind of secondary to Enjolras in his arms. 

 

They relocate to the couch. Enjolras pours them both a cup of coffee, and Grantaire hadn’t really wanted any, but that’s okay. They sit together and chat a little, and then there’s a lull in the conversation and Enjolras sets his mug down and takes a deep breath and says, “I’m going to say something,” like he hadn’t already. “And it’s the kind of thing you can just ignore if you want to, okay? Because I don’t want to mess this up. You can ignore it.”

He waits for Grantaire’s nod. Grantaire nods.

He continues. “Okay. Okay.” He pushes his hair back out of his face, hands clumsy. “Okay. Grantaire. I used to think that maybe, maybe back before, we might have… done something.”

Grantaire is lost. “Done something?”

“Like-” he huffs a breath. “Like maybe if things had turned out differently, we might have been… more than friends. You know? I don’t know. I just used to think- I used to think maybe-” He presses his fingers to his temples for a moment. “I used to think maybe you used to watch me,” he chokes out, too fast.

Grantaire freezes. This wasn’t supposed to come up now, it wasn’t-

Why would Enjolras bring it up?

“Watch you?”

“You used to look at me and I used to think that maybe you might want something more, too, and then I ruined things and then you stopped looking at me altogether and I understand if you don’t feel that way anymore or if you never felt that way at all, and like I said, you can just ignore it, it’s fine, it’s not a big deal and I can get over it, it’s whatever, just-”

“I did,” Grantaire says.

“You did?”

“I do. Look at you. Like that.” 

When he looks up, Enjolras is looking at him with such wide eyes, such surprise, that he feels locked in place by his very gaze. “Oh. You-” He clears his throat. “Still? You’re sure?”

Grantaire shrugs. 

Enjolras flushes, high in his cheeks. “I do, too. Like that. Like you.”

And Grantaire had suspected that maybe,  _ maybe  _ this is where the conversation would be going, but that doesn’t mean that his head doesn’t spin, rush with blood in his ears. That doesn’t mean that his heart doesn’t pound. That doesn’t mean that he can breathe. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” Enjolras scoots closer on the couch. Their thighs touch. “Do you think-” he starts, but he doesn’t wait any longer, not for any response, because he just leans in and kisses Grantaire.

Grantaire still can’t breathe, but he does his best to kiss back, anyways.

And Enjolras…

Enjolras  _ moans,  _ the very moment Grantaire tightens his arms around him and kisses him back. And it’s a nice kiss, it’s an amazing kiss, it’s the kiss that Grantaire hasn’t even dared dream about for six whole years of his life, but he goes to pull away, anyways, because they have stuff to discuss, and this is all so new, and-

Enjolras slips a hand into Grantaire’s hair and leaves the other around his waist and holds him close and shakes his head against Grantaire’s throat. “Just kiss me,” he murmurs, and Grantaire feels a little like his heart is going to give out.

He kisses him. He kisses him deeper than the first time, lets the kiss grow sloppy, desperate. Enjolras kisses like he doesn’t much know what he’s doing, but that’s okay for a couple of reasons. First and foremost, because this is Enjolras,  _ kissing  _ him, and running a hand up and down his back and pressing close, and Enjolras could do just about anything right now and Grantaire would love him all the same. Secondly, because Enjolras also seems extremely content to melt against Grantaire and let Grantaire lead and let himself be pressed back into the side of the couch.

Grantaire, of course, is very happy with the situation. He kisses Enjolras, and holds him close, and tries to commit all those little sounds he makes to memory. Because this is Enjolras, and obviously Enjolras, with his golden voice and fucking perfect self would sound amazing in bed, and-

Oh. Wow. This is  _ Enjolras. _

He has to take a moment, his forehead pressed against Enjolras’s collarbone, because if he doesn’t, he’s pretty sure his heart is going to give out. This is  _ Enjolras.  _ Enjolras, who he’s been in love with for years. Enjolras, who he thought he’d never have a chance with. Enjolras, who he didn’t let himself touch, not even as friends. 

And now Enjolras is flush against him and looking loopy and well-kissed, himself, and he’s got a hand in Grantaire’s hair that he hasn’t removed and it’s so fucking-

Grantaire wraps his arms around Enjolras and holds him tight and breathes. 

“Are-” He speaks, and Grantaire can feel his voice, can feel the vibration through his skin. “Are you- Is this still okay?” He sounds uncertain, nervous.

Grantaire would laugh at the very concept of him  _ not being sure about kissing Enjolras,  _ but kind of a lot of things have changed, lately, and he would laugh at the concept of Enjolras wanting him, liking him, too. “Yeah,” he says, instead. “It’s just, It’s a lot.”

Enjolras laughs breathlessly--a wonderful, wonderful sound. “I know what you mean,” he says. “I thought- I thought I fucked everything up. I thought I lost my chance, I didn’t know if I even ever had one, I thought you’d never forgive me, I-” he tightens his grasp, buries his face in Grantaire’s hair. “I like you so much. I always liked you so much. I thought you hated me, a little.”

It’s funny, how Grantaire is pretty sure he could repeat that all back and mean it entirely. And he could, but he doesn’t, because he’d really prefer to make this work, and that means being a little honest, somehow. “I had this policy,” he whispers, because he’s pretty sure that’s the only way he’s going to be able to say it. “I had this policy where I didn’t let myself near you, because if I was near you, you’d realize- You’d realize that I’m totally, stupidly in love with you.”

Beneath him, Enjolras stops breathing. 

Shit.

“Shit,” Grantaire mumbles, because of course this was a bad idea, of course that’s too much right now. He begins to extricate himself from Enjolras’s arms, starts to apologize, (God, how did he mess this up already?) but Enjolras tightens his grasp to the point of stifling, keeps him close.

“You-” Enjolras’s voice is ragged, impossibly soft. He doesn’t finish the sentence.

He waits.

“You’re-” He breathes. “You love me?”

Grantaire finally, finally works up the nerve to nod. “Yeah.”

And he isn’t sure what he’s expecting--maybe for Enjolras to push him away, or sit him down and have a chat about feelings, or say that he simply doesn’t feel quite like that--but what he is sure of is the fact that he couldn’t, in a million years, have predicted the way Enjolras  _ whimpers,  _ tugs him up, presses their foreheads together, meets his gaze with those fiery eyes a little softer than Grantaire has ever seen. “Oh,” he says. “Oh, Grantaire, me too.”

Grantaire can feel his heart pounding like a jackhammer in his chest. When Enjolras reaches out and takes his hand with a trembling hand of his own and presses it against his own chest for Grantaire to feel, his heart is pounding, just the same.

**Author's Note:**

> *captain holt voice* : COMMUNICATION!
> 
> hahaha six years of miscommunication


End file.
